Eternal
by Timeless Rose
Summary: The only thing Dracula believed separated him from Marishka's hand was her love for a handsome peasant boy. But she would be his, and she and Igor would suffer because of their mortal love for eternity.
1. Meeting

**Author's note:** This is intended to be a short story with an unlikely pairing, I guess I'm not giving too much away by saying that it will take place before Dracula turns Marishka and also serves as an explanation as to why Igor is the way he is when we run into him in Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. And speaking of Igor, it's a shame that name has gotten such a bad rep. It's not an uncommon name in Slavic-speaking countries, and I am actually fond of it. So please, no "Igor" jokes. Well, joke if you will, but I still like the name!

**Disclaimer:** If you recognize it from the Van Helsing movie, it is not mine. I am merely borrowing the characters and playing in their world, and no money is being made off of it.

_ Eternal_

_Golden._

The wheat swayed, heaving and tossing, an ocean of gold. The girl sitting framed by expensive drapes in the upper story of a glittering white house shifted and squinted, straining to find a figure among the many workers in her father's fields.

Marishka had barely turned eighteen and already she was tired of suitors. Tired of their pomp, of their glitter, their showy poetic speeches and overt attempts to conquer her hand in marriage.

And little surprise it was that suitors should court her. Beauty and wealth are a potent potion to stir young nobles' desires. Her father possessed more land than just about anyone in the region, and the land yielded rich gifts each season. And who could rival the beauty of the only daughter of Viscount Ibanescu? Tall, slender, fine-boned, delicate, with golden waves for hair, porcelain skin and honey colored eyes, Marishka Ibanescu had little competition amongst the girls of her rank. And she did not care. Did not care one bit for all her suitors and their fawning praise.

Marishka, physical beauty aside, was a strange girl. She dreamt her days away and sulked while embroidering, hardly was a smile seen on her face except when in the worlds of her imagination. She read insatiably, but never the works that were expected in the hands of a young noblewoman. She stole into her father's library, in the darkest hours of the morning just before dawn, and with a candle dug out the oldest books on folklore and myths, the ways of the common folk not befitting a blue blooded child such as herself. The maid would find them stuff under the mattress, but feigned ignorance rather than stirring the wrath of the Viscount. What he did not know brought harm to no one. Her worst habit, the one that brought her parents to frenzy and earned her a personal escort, was the trips through the surrounding forests. Yet she could not will herself away, even if she had been inclined to try. For a child of such fair features, always dressed in white and ivory and forever being compared to a shining ray of light, Marishka was far from fearing the darkness. And that was just not appropriate.

Maybe it was petulance against being swamped by prospects of a loveless marriage, a worse fate the girl could not imagine. Maybe it was her improper fascination with the commoners she so delighted in. Maybe it was just the fanciful dreamings of a sheltered girl, longing for adventure but never having tasted pain.

Whatever the reason, Marishka was in love with a servant, and stars above forbid her father or mother should discover Igor.

She twisted amongst her cushions, and finally caught sight of the red-headed youth. He was harvesting wheat with the other servants on the farm, and Marishka sat transfixed as he worked in the distance, his sickle flashing in the sun.

He had come to work in the Ibanescu household some few years prior. Marishka had been sneaking back to the house after one of her forest visits, slinking behind the storage shacks and glancing over her shoulder more often than watching where she was heading.

With a startled yelp, she collided with a human wall but her stumbling fall was prevented by strong callused hands on her white-clad shoulders. The hands dropped quickly, and the youth began a rapid, mumbled, seemingly endless apology. Recovering from the fright, Marishka let her eyes drift to the averted face and found herself startled once more.

The young man was new to her, but she assumed he was of the new batch of hired hands needed in the fields. His deep-set eyes were downcast and when they briefly flickered up once, she caught a flash of bright blue. His hair, thick and falling nearly to his shoulders, was of a color she had never seen on anyone before, red as rust and threaded with gold. Her first impression of having hit a wall was not unfounded, as he towered well above her, and his powerfully muscled arms and chest spoke of strength from hard toil and youth. He was everything her pasty-faced, dainty suitors were not, and his rugged, coarse features were more beautiful to her than any smooth, pampered face that had flattered her over the years.

"Please," she stammered, abashed at having openly starred, "it's quite alright. My apologies for my clumsiness, it can be such a bother having two left feet…" Trailing off, it was the girl's turn to look away.

Now it was the youth who stared. Igor had heard of the Ibanescu girl's beauty and was hardly taken aback by it. He had expected it, and was well prepared for what he saw. What he heard, on the other hand, gave him pause. Surely an angel of such beauty and an heiress of such wealth would not be apologizing to a field hand. And yet his ears had never failed him before. While he gaped at her, she gathered up her skirts and hurried away, lace and golden hair streaming behind her, cheeks flaming though he would not see it.


	2. Sneaking and Announcements

**Author's Note**: I'm so sorry this update took a while! School-work should be banned. Seriously.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own the world of Van Helsing, but if I did Velkan would have spent a lot more time with his shirt off. .

Sneaking and Announcements

The earth shook. Black horses were charging towards her and the only thing she could do was stare at the white clouds billowing from their nostrils. She stood transfixed, utterly hypnotized, and the horses were drawing near, the stamping of their hooves pounding in her head.

Marishka shot up in bed, realizing that the stamping hooves were really a hand banging hard enough to knock her door down from its hinges. A look out of her window told her that she had overslept. Again. And her fuzzy thoughts were proof that she had had that dream. Again.

Wrapping herself in a dressing gown and rubbing sleep from her eyes, Marishka stumbled toward the door, swinging it open to reveal a vaguely annoyed maid.

"Domnişoară Marishka, your parents would like a word with you. They are in the study," came the message.

Marishka's stomach flipped. She had been out on her walk again at dusk, and if her parents caught her somehow...

"Thank you Aliona, could you let them know I will be with them shortly?"

"Of course." And Aliona was gone, closing the door quietly behind her.

Marishka dressed, quickly found herself in front of the heavy double doors leading to the study, and taking a daughter's privilege entered without knocking. Her father was sitting behind his massive desk, a letter held in one hand. Her mother reclined in another chair, looking both pleased and anxious.

"Good morning mother, father," Marishka said, slightly inclining her head.

"Good morning dear. Have a seat, we have news to share with you," said the Lady Ibanescu and Marishka breathed an inaudible sigh of relief at having escaped detection in her evening wanderings.

Her father chuckled, "News indeed my dear, of a visitor. Don't pout so, this might interest you. In his letter, the good count has expressed not only a desire to visit us on account of business, but has also shown interest in meeting a 'delicate flower' of whom he had heard such wonderful tales."

Marishka nearly snorted in a highly unlady-like manner, "Flowers and tales indeed! Papa, why should his visit interest me? I suppose he is bride-shopping for his son."

"No my dear, the count does not have a son, but he will be visiting with his sister."

The girl was slightly startled, especially since her parents exchanged such unreadable looks. During her father's speech she had imagined the count as a man getting on in years and testing the available selection of young ladies for the benefit of some son. He seemed suddenly younger in her imagination, but she could not quite imagine why he would bring his sister. Nevertheless, she was not interested; and besides, she had yet to learn his name.

"How much time is there before they arrive?" Marishka inquired.

"Three days."

The viscount did not sound quite as happy as he tried to appear a few moments ago. He would seldom pass up an opportunity to flaunt his connections with high ranking nobility, but three days was awfully short notice. Bordering on rudeness, even. And how had he managed to send the message so quickly? The count's residence was at least a five day's ride from Ibanescu manor…he must have brought the messenger with him and set out before he announced he would be coming.

Marishka sighed. The frenzy of preparations for the arrival was about to begin. And she wanted to be as far as she could from the whirlwind of it all.

"Is that all you wished to tell me?"

"No my dear. We also wanted to ask you not to disappear for hours, as you did when Prince Alexandru was visiting," her mother fixed her with a look. "We know it will not be repeated."

"Of course," was Marishka's reply, but of course she would escape to their place in the forest, and he would be there to help her forget the suitors if only for a while. Why could not Igor have been born to a different family? Or why, for that matter, could she not have been born a farmer's daughter? But no point in daydreaming, lest she be accused of possessing a vacant stare in those pretty eyes.

Marishka rose to leave and her parents resumed their former conversation, whatever it may have been.

She was not thinking of the path her feet were following, but it somehow led her out of one of the side doors and onto a crooked gravel path. Her parents were hiding some anxiety from her, that much she could see. But other than the count's abrupt arrival, what could have shaken them so much?

Marishka found herself in a small clearing not very far from the outer perimeter of the forest. She looked around at the few flat rocks and prettily flowering weeds and thought of a day two years prior. She had been sitting on one of the stones, trying to teach herself the difference between herbs used in traditional medicines with little success when she heard a metallic snap and a sharp hiss of pain.

Knowing that there were traps laid out for foxes and that the pained moan had been human, she rushed towards the sound. Perhaps another noblewoman would have swayed with nausea at the sight, but Marishka merely flinched before pulling her thoughts together.

The red-haired youth with whom she had collided a week or two ago stood crouched over his bleeding, rapidly swelling ankle. Evidently, no one had thought to tell him traps were positioned and the signs one should seek to avoid stepping on one. Now he was hopelessly attempting to pry the jaws of the trap open with his fingers.

Marishka quickly approached. "Here, let me." The young man looked up, startled that someone was there and embarrassed that that particular girl should see him in such an undignified position.

She knelt down and tinkered with springs and latches, and the trap soon fell open around his mutilated ankle.

"Thank you…" His shyness around the young lady caught even him by surprise for the second time in as many weeks.

"You are welcome. What is your name?" She had almost forgotten their last run-in, but he intrigued her all over again.

"Igor."

After some awkward shuffling, during which Igor unsuccessfully attempted not to cringe at the pain in his foot, he spoke again.

"You must be the Domnişoară Marishka Ibanescu."

She laughed, "I am, but please don't call me by any title. I am just Marishka. But you," she continued, "must be in an awful pain. Can you walk a bit?"

He made to nod an affirmative but instead nearly fell. Now it was her turn to catch him, and she slung his arm across her shoulders. She could far from support his tall frame, but at least she could help him balance.

"Where are we going?" he inquired somewhat sheepishly.

"Not far, but you can't just stay here. What were you doing out in the forest anyway?"

"The work was finished earlier today. They told us we could enjoy the afternoon, so long as there was no troublemaking." He paused, about to ask something but hesitated. "And you? Are you alone in the woods?"

Fear shot through her. For a second, Marishka did not know whether to admit the truth or claim she had a companion who was not far off. Sweet and innocent though he appeared, she did not know the young man well enough to trust him. But she thought better of their positions and realized that in his present state she could easily outrun him.

"I am, but I should not be." She looked at him mischievously. "You won't tell, will you?"

Igor laughed, taken aback and put at ease by her suddenly familiar manner. "Tell? Of course I won't tell. Besides, who would believe me?"

They had arrived at the clearing, and she helped him sit down on one of the rocks. Marishka frowned at his torn leg.

"Do you know anything about healing?" she asked him.

"Nothing much, but this might look worse than it is."

They examined the wound, and indeed the bleeding looked worse than the cuts below it. They wrapped the injury as best they could in his bandana.

"I know of a shortcut back to the grounds where we will not be seen approaching." Marishka thought for a moment, "Actually, it might be better if you came with me. The old cook is a good woman, and she knows how to guard her tongue from wagging. She will help you."

"That is very kind of you, but I could not trouble you so much," Igor said.

Marishka smiled. "It is no trouble."

The walk, or on Igor's part hobble, back to the manor was thankfully uneventful and the paths deserted. Soon the unlikely pair were knocking on the kitchen door. A plump, elderly woman with a kind face and fly-away silver hair answered it. With a raised eyebrow, she got the answers she sought and had quickly ushered them in, securing the door behind them.

Igor's wound was quickly cleaned, treated, and fresh wrappings secured it. Sitting on rickety wooden benches by the small fireplace, he and Marishka entered into a long conversation about everything and nothing in particular. The cook went about her many duties, casting glances at the pair and smiling to herself when they could not see her. She was not green in the world, and although she knew the two could never be happy together because of circumstances out of their hands, she could see attraction when it sat chattering before her.

Both of the young people were surprised at each other. Marishka could not have imagined the life Igor had led, his childhood, his hopes, his admission and acceptance that he could never achieve his dreams, the hardships and joys he had experienced. He, likewise, would never have guessed a nobleman's daughter could be so open and warm, spending time with a mere worker. But when she looked at him, he forgot his status, the one of which he was reminded so many times each day by the overseers.

With time pressing upon them, they agreed to meet again. The clearing in the forest was spontaneously chosen, and Marishka described to Igor the hidden path he should take. Both departed with a strange twinkle in their eyes.

Now, two years later, Marishka could still recall every detail of their first meeting. They had met so many times afterwards, always sneaking to get away and see each other, talking either of reality or spinning tales more and more fantastical until both were in tears from their laughter. They had first held hands in that very spot, and for two teenagers as inexperienced as they were the feeling of each other's fingers was enough to send a crackling charge through them. As time went by, they shared their first kisses and many embraces in the same spot. Marishka had confided to Igor her unhappiness at being paraded like a trophy to be given to the most eligible young lord, but they knew that neither of them could change that. They could only steal moments, hours at most, and get lost in a world of their own creation.

Now Marishka had gotten lost in her thoughts as well, and soon someone would wonder where she might have gotten to. With a weary sigh she got up and made her way back to the manor and the seamstress' tape measure.

Three days, and the count would arrive. Another circus of fawning on all sides was sure to follow.

Marishka got into bed that evening, and soon the six black horses were charging her but there was no escape.


	3. Arriving

**Author's Note:** I am so sorry for not updating in months! I could make excuses (school, family, holidays, applications/interviews) but let's just say that I have not forgotten about the story even if I had major writer's block. I was actually disappointed with the way the dialog between the characters was turning out; it felt forced and somehow lacking, so I will do my best to work on that. For anyone still reading this story, here's chapter 3. I had intended the story to be rather short, so there will probably only be about two more chapters. Unless I suddenly stumble upon a muse. ;)

**Author's Apology:** I know I'm taking some liberties with Romanian history here, with the real Prince Vladislav Drǎculea, the time line, and especially with the rest of the family tree, but for the purposes of this story I hope it won't be too terrible.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, places, and Van Helsing plot do not belong to me. I am merely playing with them for non-profit amusement. :)

* * *

** Arriving**

Quarter past four in the morning. _In the morning._ He may be a count but what sort of God-forsaken time was that to be making an appearance on one's doorstep?

Marishka's sleep-deprived mind followed this line of thought between getting her hair brushed and her corset tightened by a small army of maids. The dim light of the gas lamps and the mist swirling outside her window were not helping her resolve to keep her eyelids apart.

A watchman had seen the Count's carriage approaching some distance away and had flown to alert the household. Like any good host, Viscount Ibanescu had proceeded to carry out the proper welcome preparations regardless of the time and not a single member of the household was glad for it. By the time the ornate carriage had passed the main gates, the entire household was awaiting their guest as though they had been up for hours.

If Marishka's thoughts were still shrouded in the sweet oblivion of dreams, they were snapped to the present when she laid eyes on the carriage. Clarity hit her like a diamond bullet. The carriage was pulled by a team of six black horses; large, powerful beasts whose breath came in white puffs as they thundered down the lane; the same horses from her hellish dreams. She was not mistaken and she was most definitely not dreaming. A sudden shiver seized her.

The Count stepped down from the carriage and held out his hand to help the other occupant exit, who could only be the sister said to be accompanying him. The pair turned to their hosts as they were announced: "The Count Vladislaus Dragulia of Wallachia and his sister the Countess Verona."

With the proper bows and curtsies and pleasantries carried out, the entire party proceeded to enter the manor.

Marishka's thoughts whirled. The whole atmosphere had shifted as soon as the two strange guests were announced. This was the famous Dragulia, the Count whose family was known for their opposition to the invading Ottoman armies. He must have been named for that ancestor of the fifteenth century, called by his enemies Vlad Tepes, the impaler, whose ruthless tactics toward the enemy aroused respect of his countrymen, disgust of his opponents, and fear among all who knew of him. Certainly this descendent had the carriage of a proud and even dangerous man. He could be no older than his mid-thirties, but his gait belied the pride that only several lifetimes of accomplishments should be able to bestow. He was handsome by all classical standards, but when Marishka peered into that chiseled face she could not help but to recoil.

It was empty of something intangible, something that could not be defined unless it was to be called the soul. His eyes were deep; deep as an abyss from which there was no return and on hope of reaching the bottom, dead or alive, just oblivion.

The Count's sister shared the same trait. Her beautiful face, with its sculpted cheekbones and elegant nose, lacked something of humanity. They were like statues and both of their eyes were hypnotically empty, as if looking at them too long would remove one's very life force. They were entrancing and repulsive, and the feelings were intertwined to make one dizzy from trying to choose the dominant sensation.

It was still dark outside. The Viscount Ibanescu was speaking and Marishka left her reverie just in time to reenter the conversation that had turned toward her.

"Ah, the flower of the line of Ibanescu. It is my deepest pleasure to finally meet with you in person my dear," Dragulia bowed low before kissing Marishka's hand. His lips were ice that burned her skin at the contact. She did her best not to snatch back her hand, but Verona noticed her discomfort. Her perfect lips barely twitched with the amusement she was experiencing. Valdislaus, with the most innocent of gestures, still knew how to make a woman of any age know exactly what he thought of her.

"My Lord Dragulia," was all she would say, sinking into a curtsey that she hoped would hide the revulsion on her face. His stare was unsettling, and if he had been a man of lesser rank and more common name her father would have had him whipped for the intensity of his gaze.

An awkward silence settled on the small group, and Ibanescu gave a small laugh as he clapped his hands together. "Dear guests, you need rest after your tiring journey. I will show you to your quarters where my servants will provide you with whatever you may need."

"Thank you," replied Dragulia in his most gracious tone. "If I may make a small request…"

"Certainly, certainly!"

"My sister and I will be staying in the west wing guest quarters. Please make sure that your servants hang the thickest drapes on our windows. We will rejoin you later this evening."

To those less familiar with the Viscount, they would only have seen the easy smile and polite, "Of course. It is no problem." To those who were more familiar with him, his twitching right eye would have signaled extreme annoyance. The eastern quarters had already been prepared with the outmost care; now that work will have been for naught.

Marishka was anxious to be as far removed from the situation in as little time as possible. Preferably in the clearing where Igor would be waiting for her and the both of them could forget the world for a few brief hours. The dawn was just breaking; they would be in each other's arms soon….


	4. Debating

**Author's Note: **Here is chapter four my lovelies. :) Thank you for all your reviews! I'm sorry if I didn't get a chance to reply to all of them personally.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Van Helsing or anything recognizable from the movie or novelization (which is quite good, I might add).

Debating

"Drugging the household?"

Beneath the hood of his threadbare coat, Igor was looking incredulously at a distressed and increasingly defensive Marishka. Their clearing in the woods was swirling with leaves and a fine, misting rain. It was just barely dawn, and they had been talking for the better half of an hour. At least, Marishka had been talking. Igor sat patiently, trying to find logical explanations for her strange worries.

"He must be," she fired back. "People are walking in a daze and I can't remember the last time anyone could focus their eyes on something less than a thousand meters away. My parents are the worst of them all. And Dracula and Verona have been here for the third month now."

Igor continued to listen patiently, no sign of disagreement on his face. But he made no effort to agree, and his logical explanations could not satisfy the subtle peculiarity that was developing into frightening strangeness.

"You think I'm overreacting. Or imagining things." Her pout would have bordered on childish had it not been for the dangerous glint in her eyes.

"Not really. Do not fashionable folk always stay at each others' estates for ages? And I did not notice anyone acting oddly." It was a sound conclusion, but nothing was customary anymore.

"Maybe they do, but it seemed like he was only passing through, not moving in for an indefinite amount of time. And you might not have noticed any strange behavior, but when was the last time you, a farm hand, were closer to the inside of the manor than a hundred meters away?"

She regretted the words before they had left her mouth. It had been a long time since they had clashed over their differences and only the second time since she met him that she had called attention to his low status, even among the servants. He had not insulted her intentionally and was probably not aware of the effect of his words. And she had purposely stabbed him in an open wound.

The talk had escalated into a discussion, with Igor unintentionally finding ways to make Marishka feel foolish and far younger than her years, and what irritated her more than his ready and confident answers was his inability – or unwillingness? – to take her words seriously. She was not seeing things that were not present, hearing sounds that were not uttered, experiencing unexplained cosmic vibrations, or whatever else he might think. She was beginning to fear not for her sanity, but for her life and the lives of those dear to her.

The reaction had been immediate. He angled his face away from her and when he brought it back to look at her, regret and shame and rebellion were warring in his eyes. In that moment Marishka could not bring herself to apologize, though guilt tore at her; they had both wounded each other that day, in ways more direct or less.

"Fine. Fine. Be here at sundown and you will find something that could help you understand. Or imprison me in my rooms until I am married. Look under that rock. And bring a bag with you, as large as you can find." With that she pulled her cloak tightly closed at the neck and swept out of the clearing as Igor scowled at her back. The autumn mist swallowed her quickly. He knew he would come, despite his wounded pride. She knew he would, too.

* * *

Marishka made it back into her bed, and her night clothes, a full ten minutes before the maids arrived to 'wake' her and help her dress. Throughout the day she was never out of someone's sight for more than fifteen minutes. So it would have made a magpie proud to see how much material she had gathered by the time she was summoned to coffee and cakes at four in the afternoon.

Dracula was the first to rise from his chair as she entered the room. Her parents were still wearing their idiotic smiles from two weeks ago. Marishka wondered vaguely if their faces were permanently frozen that way.

"Good afternoon child," Dracula bowed, giving her a once over that was certainly not intended for a child. He did not seem bothered that her parents were watching, that his sister was present, and that she herself was facing him.

She barely suppressed a shudder at his disgusting display. Amazingly he had never done anything more than look at her a certain way, but his manner was growing bolder and her parents' more detached from reality. A shock of fear gripped her as she realized that she was alone in the house. There were people at every turn yet no one would be able to help her, or answer her call if she cried out for help.

But the charade would go on, for a little while at least.

"My lord, I hope your day has been entertaining." Tomorrow would prove far more entertaining for some, Marishka added grimly to herself. The zenith of the Count's visit. The ball. Nothing good could come of it.

"The hospitality of your parents puts the kings of old to shame," he inclined his head in their direction and they bobbed their heads like puppets. Verona's face would have been neutral had her lip not twitched in amusement. She knew that Marishka was noticing these fine nuances. That was why her Dracula had chosen the girl. She was not as naïve as her sheltered life should have made her.

"How will we ever live up to such grand comparisons, Count? You are too generous in your kindness." The mocking tone she finally dared use could not be missed. Count Ibanescu, who would have had thunder and lightening streaming from his eyes by now, only smiled blandly from where he sat. Dracula could not suppress a laugh.

As soon as the indolent activity could be concluded, Marishka fled from the drawing room with the pretense of going to change her attire for dinner. Not only had the company been disagreeable, but the closed drapes had blocked the cool, glittering afternoon light and made the cavernous space feel unnaturally stifling and oppressive.

* * *

If nothing else, the new state of the household's collective disposition made it a lot easier to make absurd excuses. So no one noticed when Marishka slipped out for a spell with a large bundle in her arms. No one asked why there were crushed leaves tracked through the concealed servant's entrance when she appeared again, either.

* * *

Igor indeed appeared at the clearing just as the sun clipped the horizon. Rolling away the rock Marishka had pointed out that morning he found a large, lumpy package and a note pinned beneath the cords that held the canvas closed. He pulled it loose and read it haltingly. Young men of his status normally exercised only their muscles and common sense, but Marishka had been teaching him to read and write. Despite what her father preached, she could not imagine that only nobility had the intellectual capacity for academics. Igor had proven her correct, learning with more ardor and more quickly than any other pupil she had ever encountered.

"_Tomorrow night is the grand ball in honor of the guests. A masked ball. Wear that which you will find here and meet me at the edge of the forest at the eighteenth hour. -M"_

Despite the events of that morning, he could not hold a grudge against her. Heavens knew she had held no grudge with him at any time in the past. Their passions and youth led them to say foolish things in the heat of the moment. Fortunately they were wise enough to know that whatever was said, they would always return to each other. Always, of course, until she was married and was sent away to her husband. But even then they would be in each other's thoughts. They promised each other as much every chance they got. They were still young, still believing love to be eternal.

He pulled on the cords and the canvas fell away, revealing the most expensive fabrics he had ever seen. The blue velvet coat was richly embroidered with gold thread, the shirt was of fragrant cream silk…she had found everything for the disguise and true to his size as well. Even the boots were a perfect fit. From among the folds of the vest, a gold mask and a black ribbon fell into his lap.

A fear he had not known since childhood seized him, when the children sat in the evenings telling half-remembered or half-learned ghost stories and legends of night creatures in front of the dying embers of someone's small fireplace. Now those fears seemed trivial compared to the fear of what he was about to do, but he checked the shadows nonetheless. And he would go through with it, for no other reason than that it was Marishka who had asked it of him.

He was going to break every possible rule. He was going to impersonate a young lord. He was going to attend the ball.

He was going to be hanged if anyone discovered him.


	5. Dressing

**Author's Note: **Chapter five is finally here. I'm sorry not much happens in this one but chapter 6 is almost done, so hopefully that should make up for it. Please let me know if it's starting to sound like rambling.

Thank you for all your reviews!

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill.

Dressing

Marishka was sitting at her dressing table, fiddling with the edge of the lacy cloth peaking out from under ivory handled brushes and crystalline perfume bottles. If someone had walked in on her meditation they might have assumed that she was staring intently at her own reflection. She was, in fact, staring at the reflection of a mirror hanging on the wall behind her, watching a seemingly endless corridor created by two mirrors facing each other. The eerie, empty, repetitive image was somehow analogous to her own life. She could not imagine her future beyond the present; time had stopped with the Count's arrival. She had never given thought to the specifics of her future. Those were the concerns of her parents, whose duty was to secure a good match that would pass on the family wealth and acquire even more in return. Now she was not certain she could remain resigned to that fate.

Dullness and tiredness washed over Marishka. She fervently wished the count had never come. She fervently hated herself for wishing she had never met Igor. What could the two of them do? Marry? The thought was absurd, if not to her then to everyone around her. But even more absurd was the thought of living without him, in some far away province with a stranger for a husband and vapid ladies of rank for companions.

The door creaked open but Marishka did very little to put on a livelier countenance, assuming it was Aliona coming to help lace her corset. So it is understandable that she gave a violent start and knocked over a jewel box when a smooth, cool voice spoke.

"Sister, you seem troubled."

Verona was gliding through her doors as if she owned the place, the pale blue silk of her dress swirling around her feet. That act, coupled with the familiar greeting coming from such a distant acquaintance, only added to Marishka's foul mood.

"_Countess_ Verona, what may I do for you?" She vaguely wondered if she was being rude. But Verona did not notice, or didn't mind if she had noticed, and smiled in an amicable fashion.

"Do for me, dear? Nothing at all. I missed your company and the chatter only we girls know how to share and appreciate."

Her honey voice sounded sincere enough. Marishka trusted her even less because of it. But Verona had already picked up the heavy silver brush and was running it through her wheat-colored waves, asking the questions that girlfriends tittered over in private and acting as though they were best friends, or sisters, or both.

"What will you wear to the ball?" The rhythmic pull of the brush was lulling Marishka into an unnaturally drowsy daze. Hypnotic.

"I'm sure I can find something suitable," she mumbled.

In the silence that followed, Marishka gazed out of the window at the dull sky. She remembered walking arm in arm with Verona and a beautiful woman with hair like fire. They felt close, sisterly, and were talking about some private matter. But she could not remember the conversation, only images of the Count's face, as if the exciting secret involved him in some way. But she couldn't place the memory, only the feeling of the moment, anticipation, and the way light reflected from cold torches placed high on a black stone wall. Yet she had never spent more than fifteen minutes alone with Verona, and she didn't know any red-haired women. So why was her face so familiar?

"My brother had a suggestion," Marishka snapped back to reality and Verona seemed to hesitate for a moment, "that we should match our dresses. And I have a gift that I have been waiting to give you." Only then did Marishka notice a plain box on the chest by the foot of her bed. Verona moved towards it, motioning for her to follow.

Marishka attributed her strange daydream to Verona's overly-amicable attitude, and the fire-haired woman must have been inspired by the red leaves visible through her window. There had to be a simple, logical explanation. She approached the box, putting the odd vision out of memory.

Inside the box lay the most intricately embroidered gown Marishka had ever seen. Considering her family's wealth, that was saying something about the garment folded meticulously before her. The fabric was thin, delicate, and pale gold in color, giving contrast to the richly shimmering strands of gold thread weaving across the material. Marishka debated hotly in her thoughts; it was too much, she could not accept something of such a value when she could not return the favor; but if she refused, the insult would be unforgivable.

"Your generosity is incomparable. Thank you," Marishka blushed from embarrassment and Verona's fond smile, as though she was a small child that a favorite aunt was indulging. It all did little to make her feel more dignified.

"Come to my rooms when you have dressed," Verona suggested. "We can pass the hour or so until the formalities begin." After Marishka's affirmative nod, she swept from the room.

As if she did not have enough to worry about with sneaking Igor into the ball – he was going to see the madness for himself, if she had to do the impossible so be it – Marishka had a feeling she would have a constant companion that evening. And not the one that made her heart race. Even though Verona had not acted in any but a pleasant manner, there was something vaguely unsettling about the young woman, an aura that surrounded the count even more strongly. She did not want a girls' evening while the Count was producing strange effects among the household and she was trying to prove said strangeness to her seemingly-unbelieving lover. Especially now that she was having visions of friendship and sisterhood with unknown women of angelic beauty and recalling unspoken conversations about the Count.


	6. Dancing

**Author's Note: **I borrowed the ballroom imagery from the movie. I figure Dracula is a fellow of extravagant tastes, and seeing as I have not been to many (er, _any_) balls, I'm sticking to the movie version for how he would run a good time.

**Author's Note 2:** I am so sorry that I said to some I would update in about a week from my last update. Not only did I have a tremendous amount of work that I wasn't expecting, I got stuck in my writing. I have a plan for certain things I want to happen, but couldn't come up with how to bridge them. Hopefully the writer's block has passed. :-/

Thank you for all your reviews!

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill.

Dancing

Feet beat the frozen, slippery ground and crushed wet leaves, occasionally slipping on a slick patch of dead foliage. Marishka was gasping for breath and her skirt splatter with mud when she skidded to a halt in the clearing. A tall, broad-shouldered figure spun at her arrival. If not for the elegantly tied red hair that could belong to none other than her lover, she would have mistaken Igor for a young lord. His disguise fit him perfectly.

"Come on, come on," and she was grabbing his hand and pulling him awkwardly after her as she attempted to run back the way she had come.

"Wait," but she did not hear him. "Marishka….Marishka! MARISHKA!" She finally slowed down and turned around, eyes vaguely wild. Igor cupped her face in both his hands. "What has happened?" he wondered.

"The count, his sister, I think they suspect something and I think he wants her to watch me constantly and she will notice I did not come to her rooms as she asked and…" she hesitated for a heartbeat, gulping in a breath of air, "I can't face them without you nearby." Her head would have drooped in shame if not for the warm, calloused palms still resting against her cheeks. Her talk with Verona had affected her more than she realized. Verona, that beautiful hag, Marishka thought. In her presence she felt friendship and safety, as one would with the closest confidante. An illusion. Now that her head had been cleared by the cold, misty air of the forest she again experienced the revulsion inspired by the guests' frigid elegance, hollow beauty, empty eyes, easy command of her parents' estate….

In the second it took for these thoughts to crowd through her racing mind, Igor had crushed her to his chest. For a brief moment there was only the welcoming emptiness of the forest, the concealing mist, and the two mismatched lovers. A branch creaked overhead, causing them to jump apart, then laugh nervously.

"We should go," Igor whispered. "Verona will be waiting." The statement was more of a question. Marishka nodded glumly.

"Some of the guests have started arriving for the _festivities_," she spat the last word. "You will hand this to the servant at the entrance," suddenly businesslike, she handed him an elaborate invitation. "Never look any of the servants in the eye. If anyone asks your name, you are Count László de Császár, just arrived from Budapest." Marishka began to question the wisdom, or lack thereof, of her plan. Maybe she was imagining all this. There was little concrete evidence for her claims that the siblings were anything but vaguely rude.

"Right, impersonate a pompous, arrogant, Hungarian count. Not a problem," Igor winked at her. She didn't know whether she should be comforted or worried.

At the edge of the forest they split, Igor toward the milling crowd of arrivals in which he would hide in plain view and Marishka toward the side entrance to an unused hallway.

Marishka dressed at record speed, all the while wondering if she were stupid and naïve for thinking anything was supernaturally unusual, if it was worth getting into trouble and complications if Igor was to be discovered, and if maybe the Count and his sister were simply pompous from a lifetime of being catered to by nobles and servants alike. Most of all she was confused, and that turned her rather livid.

She knocked on Verona's chamber door and decided it would be best to play along. A slight smile was plastered on her face and all her doubts hid behind it.

"Darling! Come in," Verona had thrown the double doors open and grabbed her hands in one fluid motion, pulling her to a mirror. She stood to the side of it and watched the younger girl appreciatively. "My, my, he does have an eye for these things," she mused. "Turn around…slowly." Marishka complied.

Nearly two hours later, they found themselves before the entrance to the grand ball room. Marishka barely recognized the halls leading to the once familiar room, now covered with luxuriant drapes and golden ornaments that had been imported to her home without her knowledge or notice. She vaguely wondered how many servants it had taken to transform her home into an almost gaudy opulence. At least her golden gown would blend in with the scenery.

Marishka followed Verona, hands clasped, through the double doors. Whatever doubts she had were melted away. She had not been imagining the strangeness, the visitors were not merely exotic or eccentric, and the majority of people to pass through the house were indeed bewitched. Every person she saw at closer range had the distinctly glassy stare of a somnambulist and an eerie half-grin.

Before the arrival of the siblings, Marishka's life had been monotonous except for her stolen moments with Igor and her own fantasies, and she was aware that neither could be molded into a permanent presence in her future. Vladislaus' and Verona's appearance had been so sudden and yet the time they spent at the estate passed so sluggishly, Marishka had nearly been convinced that they were a passing phenomenon and that her boredom was the cause of the unsettling feelings, creating an adventure of sorts for herself. But when she allowed herself to think honestly, the atmosphere in the household was shimmering with something cold, exciting, frightening, and repulsive; something undefined, illogical, yet strongly evident if one could suspend their disbelief in the otherworldly. And something impending inescapably.

"Marishka, you look nice," her mother commented absently as she and Verona passed by her. _Nice_ was not a word usually employed by the eloquent Viscountess Ibanescu, who now glided away while Marishka gaped after her; the look in her eyes had been all but dead. She spotted Igor, after much searching, toward the far side of the vast room and attempted to withdraw her hand from Verona's. The older of the two strengthened her grip.

"Don't go, darling. Vlad is coming. See him?" Verona nodded in her brother's direction.

"Yes, indeed. And my father as well." The two gentlemen in question had drawn near. At least, Marishka thought, Igor is close by. From the unsettled look on his face, she was satisfied that he too observed the strange circumstances he was so adamant were only a figment of her imagination.

"Marishka, your loveliness puts the rays of the sun to shame," the Count remarked in a most smarmy fashion while performing an elaborate bow. Marishka was repulsed. Shooting a glance in Igor's direction, she noticed him making his way slowly toward her and could only be thankful for his discretion. Not that she thought little of him, but how often do field hands impersonate nobility, no matter how witty and resourceful they may be?

"Marishka, daughter, it is time to discuss a matter which has been impending for some time." He waited as if expecting her to know exactly what he meant. She was afraid that she did. "Your marriage." The words were like a sentence delivered to a criminal.

She was startled. "Now? _Here?_"

Her father took both her hands. She barely realized that Verona had relinquished her grip.

"Marishka, you are to wed the most honorable Count Vladislaus Dragulia on the last Sunday of the month."

"That is less than ten days away!" Marishka drew back as if slapped. She bumped into Verona and realized that she was standing inside a tight triangle of the Dragulia siblings and her father. Of course her marriage would be arranged, that was not a surprise. But times were not quite so barbaric that she would not be told in advance and away from the suitor's scorching gaze. On the other hand, perhaps times have just gotten that barbaric.

"Don't worry my dear, the arrangements have already been taken care of. You will leave for the Count's provinces in under a month," her father informed her as if that should sooth any worries. She stood frozen. "Marishka, show some respect to your future husband," the viscount hissed sharply in an aside to his daughter, his eyes still glassy and a bit unfocused.

Darting a glance over Vladislaus' shoulder, Marishka could see the distress and rebellion on Igor's face and knew that he had heard; hopefully he would do nothing rash. Several things happened in quick progression. She resolved to run away with her lover no matter the consequences. This was a childish tactic, running from her problem with a young man she should not be allowed to even converse with, but she was also aware that there could be no other solution. She also decided to tell the Count she would need time to adjust to the request. And finally she planned to exit the room as quickly as possible and to meet with Igor in a hidden location. They had much planning to do.

During her snap decisions, Vladislaus took her hand with a gentle look on his face and a cruel glitter in his icy eyes. She continued to renounce what was happening to her, but despite her resolve to stall on the marriage she smiled and her throat, against her will, spoke. "Count, you honor me with your proposal and I gladly accept." In her mind she choked and fought but could do nothing. Igor was still hovering close enough to hear, but far enough to remain inconspicuous. His expression was torn between extreme pain and intense concentration. He could not decide whether she was merely playing along or if she had finally realized that a poor, uneducated, unrefined field hand was not worthy of her attentions, much less a lifelong commitment. From her expression, it was impossible to tell.

The Count slipped his arm around her back and led her toward the dance floor, into the whirling chaos of the colorful dancers. Her limbs moved of their own accord. Horrified, she realized that she was his puppet, that her body was paralyzed to her commands and only her mind was free to torment her with her helplessness.

To any looking from the side she was smiling contentedly and spun into the Count's arms in a complicated choreography, the likes of which she had never even seen, much less performed.

The music was of perfect volume. She could hear the Count's whispered poisons, but no one else could hear them. The newly mounted torches caused his eyes to glitter unnaturally.

"Marishka my sweet, you are not as foolish as some young ladies of your generation. It is why I have chosen you for my bride you see. If only you would believe what you feel, and not try to reason it away with logic." He might have sighed. "It has been centuries since I have seen a combination I so enjoyed. So _torn_. What to believe? What to doubt?"

'Centuries' echoed over and over in her head. To all the world they looked like blissful lovers twirling in each other's arms. Oh how she hated him, as she had never hated him nor anyone else in all her life.

"I know you suspected something. I would not have been enthralled had you not. But I am curious as to how much you guessed." His arm shifted and she could speak, though only a bit above a whisper and with a besotted smile still on her face.

"You are an unholy demon, of whom I will be rid entirely," she spat the words with as much venom as his manipulation of her throat would allow.

Vladislaus laughed. "My, my. You are an intelligent one. You are entirely correct on the first count. I am indeed a demon. The blood of mortals keeps me eternal," he nearly gloated and dipped her in time to the music. It seemed to be a point of pride with him, as though it were a particularly distinguishing feature. "But," he crushed her painfully against him, "you will never be rid of me. The things I bestow on you are also eternal, including your title as one of my brides."

"Brides? How many are there?" It seemed he now wanted to hear both her words and tone.

"You will be the second. Verona was the first."

"You are married to your own sister?" Her disgust with him multiplied exponentially.

"No you naïve girl, she is not my sister. But how else should I introduce her in your social circles? As my bride she has a say in who her future sisters might be; her presence during my visit to you is crucial." Verona was indeed looking on approvingly. "I had heard of her, much as I had heard of you, and grew curious. It was a few years more than a century ago. I was travelling to cure my restlessness when I heard of a Venetian nobleman whose daughter was so beautiful that mortal women could not compare, so well learned in the arts of philosophy and politics that she put scholars to shame as if they were schoolboys beginning at their lesson. Her grandmother found it amusing and encouraged her, her father was less than pleased. How could I resist such allure?" Marishka wondered what her allure for him was, since she was neither scholar nor budding politician. It escaped her that he was satisfied with only her appearance. "But now both she and I are lonely and crave fresh…company."

"Did you give my parents the same pretty speech when you asked for my hand in marriage?" Marishka asked, full well knowing the answer.

"Asked? Now why would I ask, when I can tell? But, sweetling, they could not care less in any case!" The Count spun her around and she noticed both her mother and father in the arms of unknown dance partners. Horrified, she realized that they were not only dancing, but that the strangers' lips played over the throats of her parents in an obscene display of carnal pleasure. Only later did she understand that it was not kisses being bestowed, but vampiric infections.

Marishka met Igor's eyes, and from the horror and disgust on her face he knew she would never be swayed by anything the nobleman could offer. He made to move toward her, most likely to snatch her from the monster's arms and make a valiant, but foolish, effort to defend her. She shook her head slightly in the hopes of stopping him.

"Let him come," Dracula drawled. "Your fiery-haired pet will not come to any harm just yet. But it will not do for my future bride to be skulking through the woods to an adulterer's tryst."

Dracula flicked his wrist and the tapestries and drapes covering a portion of the smooth wall drew back, revealing a mirror of extravagant proportions. In that mirror could be seen but a handful of figures. She and Igor were the only entirely solid images. The rest appeared as smoke of varying densities. A creeping sensation stole upon Marishka as she realized that, despite whatever her mind would think logical, the Count was a vampire and the rest of the people in the room, including her parents, were in the process of becoming vampires or the first meal of the newly turned demons. It might be too late for her family, but it would not be too late for her lover. Dracula nearly read her thoughts.

"Well, no matter. I am a merciful lord. So I will grant you one final night." Another flick of the wrist and Marishka regained control of her limbs. At the same instant she and Igor bolted toward the door, and in the process, toward each other. Casting one final look over her shoulder, Marishka saw the Count and Countess standing shoulder to shoulder with identical serene grins on the cursed marble of their features. The young lovers fled hand-in-hand into the green darkness of the woods.

**Author's Note 3:** I'm sorry if there are any spelling/grammatical errors, I didn't proofread as thoroughly as I would like. I'll get back to it, eventually.


	7. Running

**Author's Note: **Finally, another chapter. My muse abandoned me and I ran into a writer's block. I had some idea about what I wanted to write, I just didn't know how to go about it. Just one more after this, I think, and then the rewrite (some parts are making me cringe as I reread them, eg dialog, and I'm not fond of how Marishka's character turned out, definite Mary-Sue-ish tendencies ugh). Thank you to anyone still reading this, and cookies and absinthe all around for reviewers!

Thanks to everyone for reviews and +favorites, and to all the lurking readers as well!!

**Disclaimer:** Same as before, unfortunately.

Running

Tripping and panting, Marishka and Igor skidded to a stop in a clearing they had not seen before. They had been running until Marishka's legs could no longer support her and she had tumbled to the muddy ground, unused to such exertion. After their wild flight from the manor they had only the thought of getting away, but the deeper they went into the forest, the more it became obvious that there really was no place they could go or hide. The church was not an option. Both the count and countess had set foot in the holy place numerous times with no damage done to their persons. There was no one to whom they could turn, no neighbors, poor or wealthy, that could be reached by foot in the short amount of time they had been granted, and there was no returning to the carnival of death behind them. The surrounding woods jeered at them, the knotted branches pointing mocking fingers at their distress. More than a few times, shadows flew through the topmost branches, too large to be birds, too fast to see.

The young lovers could not look at each other. Igor burned with shame, knowing he could not protect the girl he loved. If the count had been mortal, he would have fought to the last breath, would have given every ounce of strength to keep them together and away from the madman. What could he do when the opponent could paralyze a person's movements with a snap of fingers? Marishka was beyond feeling; life had become surreal. The arrival of the count and his extended stay had been ridiculous. The tension and apprehension that had been growing within her in the presence of the guests was finally explained, but the explanation only made matters far worse. She used to tell herself they were eccentric and disturbing, then that there was something sinister about them, trying to ignore the instinct warning her of something supernatural and deadly. She confided in Igor that things were bizarre but she was afraid to really, truly believe that dark creatures and fairy-tale could be real.

After only a few moments of rest, a disembodied voice sounded in the clearing. "Have you had a good exercise, my pets?" the count's voice called to them. They jerked in every direction trying to find him, apparently much to his amusement because he released a rumbling laugh. Marishka kept scanning the treetops, unsure why the sound came from above them. Did the count fly too? "Look up my boy, you see my soon-to-be bride has the right idea. And don't forget, I am always above you, in every way." Indeed Marishka had been looking at the high branches, and now sneered at his taunt. His ego was huge and his manner full of confidence, so only a childish desire for bullying could cause him to throw such petty insults.

She snapped back, "Above? You come from the lowest pits of hell, filthy beast!" A nearby tree branch snapped across her cheek, the thin limb leaving an angry, bloody smear below her right eye. His fingers were in the branches and his voice in the wind as he proclaimed in a sing-song tone, "Manners my lovely, it is your husband you are addressing." Igor tried fruitlessly to push her behind him and shield her from harm. Little use, gallant as the action was, when the Count controlled every part of the forest.

Something large and dark dropped like a stone and landed like a feather before them. No longer dressed in his celebratory attire, Vladislaus resembled an oversized bat in his dark uniform, his cape fluttering grotesquely around him.

"Now then!" After a businesslike clap of the hands a small army of creatures melted out of the surrounding trees. They were short, no taller than Marishka's elbow, and completely covered in rust-colored leather, sporting goggles and helmets, a few gibbering in a startling cacophony then snapping to attention. "Kindly say your farewells, children, I do not want to be late for my wedding." Igor's knuckles turned white from his grip on Marishka's hand, and she grabbed his arm defiantly. The overall effect led to a very bored expression on the vampire's face. "Remove him."

Four of the creatures moved forward and latched onto Igor's arms, wrenching him away from her. Despite his impressive farmer's physique he could not shake them off. Marishka heard a shrill shrieking fill the clearing and only realized it was her own when another two of the beasts herded her backward and the count roughly took her shoulders, pressing up obscenely against her back. Igor was struggling, now flat on the ground with arms and legs pinned down. "Let him go! Please stop them! Let him up!" Her struggling only succeeded in ripping her sleeves in the count's grip.

Vladislaus looked at her as one would a child throwing a temper tantrum. "I have been patient with your foolishness and your insults. Now it is time for you to learn some manners."

A snap of the count's fingers and the creatures, appearing by the dozens from the trees, dragged in all manner of machinery the likes of which Marishka had never seen. The very shape of the devices made their uses plain.

"Strip him. Let no shred of dignity remain to his name." Neither Igor's violent struggles, nor his cries for her to run as fast and far as she could, had any effect on the efficient little beasts as his clothing was torn away in ragged strips. Marishka struggled as well, to even less benefit. The count had dragged her a little ways away, a perfect distance to give her a better view and increase her torment, then shot inhumanly through the treetops and landed on a high branch.

Igor was too far for her to see clearly now, but she could hear every detail. The cracks of whips were not enough to elicit so much as a groan from the young field hand, but the cruel machinery that would twist his limbs broke through any composure he might have had. No amount of youth, strength, or adrenaline could dull the pain of the metal and wood contraptions. Silent tears were falling in unstoppable torrents, obscuring Marishka's vision. There was a strange buzz, and only later did she learn of his torture as he was repeatedly struck with cattle prods. How ironic, that the very weapon used on him would become his main play-toy.

A final howl rent the air, and all sound ceased. Marishka breathed a final sob and, believing Igor to be dead, faded into the welcoming oblivion of unconsciousness. It was the closest she could come to joining him in death.


	8. Existing

**Author's Note:** Almost done! Many thanks for all the reviews, +faves, and +alerts!

**Disclaimer:** Still don't own anything you recognize from the movie. Very sad. :'(

Existing

When Marishka came to her senses, she was half-sitting on the forest floor propped against Vladislaus' chest. He quickly discovered that she had awoken and tilted her head to the side, moving her hair away from the side of her neck. He wanted her conscious when he took her. She began to struggle feebly, and he placed his nose against the sweet, warm skin of her neck savoring the anxiety and confusion he could smell in her blood. Letting himself indulge for only a moment, he slipped his fangs into the pulsing vein.

Stars exploded before Marishka's eyes in perfect harmony with the searing pain in her neck. She had barely become aware of her memories, thinking that she must have been dreaming a nightmare of extreme vividity, when a searing pain pinched her neck. A burning coldness was spreading from the wound in her throat, her blood freezing inside her and forming sharp, ice-like shards that cut open all her veins from within. But this was nothing, a mere scratch, compared to the knowledge that Igor, her devoted, strong, kind, sweet Igor, was dead, mutilated, and very well serving as a feast for the devil-count's foul demon-servants. There were no tears. She was beyond them, the shock too deep.

Dracula tightened his arms around her ribs. He knew when he began to speak she would have no choice but to listen. But he first had to taste the irresistible flavors of an innocent girl becoming a hellish temptress. He knew her smell would morph as she joined him in living death and near immortality, fading into the distressing scent of dry, withered death that only another vampire could find attractive but to which mortals would be morbidly drawn. Humph. Curiosity.

Still, he himself was ever curious. His lips trailed along whatever was exposed of her skin, lapping at the trickle of blood pulsing out of her neck. It would take nearly ten days before she was completely his, but the process was starting, first enslaving her body then her mind to him. Marishka's skin burned and swirled with the stains of blood spilling from the torn vessels just beneath the surface. He grinned lecherously.

When Igor awoke he was lying on his side, one of his arms pinned beneath him and his neck and upper back strangely numb. It would be too much effort to move, so he lay where he had fallen. There was something important he thought he should be remembering but why anything other than keeping himself comfortable should matter was beyond him.

The count had promised him protection in return for some services, and those services were exactly his idea of a good time. The thought of torture and kidnapping improved his mood greatly, though he was perplexed by an odd desire to rebel against the thought as if it were repugnant. Just another strange memory from an imagined life far away that he could not clearly remember and that did not matter anymore anyway.

When Marishka regained consciousness she was laying in a bed. For one blissful moment she hoped she had awoken from a nightmare and life would proceed as usual, even better once the loathsome guests left. Yet she was afraid to open her eyes. The mattress was too hard; the covers too light; the air too stale and dusty. It was cold, too cold and damp. And there was a dip to her right telling her someone was sitting on the side of her bed. Verona...

Marishka opened her eyes with a start and bolted upright, sending needles of pain to every limb and a searing stab in her neck. She scooted as far from the other woman as she could without falling off of the bed, which was not very far at all.

"Sister, you are home." Verona enveloped her in a hug that would have been warm but for her icy skin.

"You sick harpy." The dank walls and rotting bedclothes were not home. The window panes were covered with frost and all that could be seen though them was uniform, steely grayness.

"You are upset. It is understandable. I too was unhappy at first. And lonely. There was no one to explain to me what I will tell you, so be comforted that you are not alone. The master chooses us to be his brides, to share his bed, but not his plans, ambitions, or intelligent conversation. He gives us eternity, but eternity as slaves to his physical pleasures. You see, my dear, men are the same everywhere, whether alive or undead. He will promise you everything, take everything, and give you nothing but sorrow."

Marishka wanted to protest, to scream _not Igor, he would never be cruel!_ But Igor was dead and so was she, and Verona's hushed, hurried whispers caused Marishka to look in fear around the room, expecting Dracula to materialize from the shadows at any moment. The dark-haired vampiress was evidently afraid of him overhearing, and Marishka was suddenly seized with strong curiosity to hear what she had to say, at the same time dreading what she was to learn.

Verona's rapid voice became impatient.

"Now listen carefully. We are sisters in that we share this burden of our master's passions, and our secrets. When the master is far from us physically, his hold on our minds it loosened. You do not feel this yet because it will take some time for his hold on you to be complete. Once he is far, all your memories will return to you, of your past life, of the love you lost, of the monster you have become. You will hate yourself; the only person you will hate more is Dracula. That place in your heart that was once hopeful and loving will be filled with acid, and the pain will eat you from inside. There will be only one way to stop the pain, and that is to be near him. When he touches you, you will forget everything and revel in bloodlust, you will desire all the carnal pleasures he can give you and exalt in those you can give him. You will remember nothing and nothing will have meaning, except sinking into the dizzy abandon his hypnotism can provide."

Marishka had forgotten to breathe. Horrifyingly enough, she realized she did not actually need to do so. The words were not meant to hurt her, but as a harsh means of protection. Verona attempted to lessen the shock of the cruel lessons she had had to learn on her own.

"He is an addiction. Each time you are separated from him, you will only have more vile memories to add to your collection and will wish to forget them more fervently than before. But to forget them, you must commit more. You will never be free, and you cannot even die."

Verona's speech ended and her manner shifted from concerned confidante to practical business in a heartbeat, "Now get dressed appropriately. The master wishes for you to meet someone."

Because going back was impossible, crying useless, suicide ineffective, and forward the only way left, Marishka shed her soiled, once-white gown and allowed Verona to help her into glittering golden fabric which might once have caused her now-deceased parents to weep with shame.


End file.
